The Executioner's Cane

by Anne Brooke

  Finding nothing to cover him for warmth, she had no option but to rise, or rather stagger upright, and continue her search for life in those around her. As she swayed before recovering her balance again, she felt the brush of great wings against her face and had to stop herself falling. The snow-raven paid her no heed. Instead the bird hopped through the devastation towards Simon’s head and spread its wings so that they formed a covering over him. Trying to regulate her breathing and unclench her hand, Annyeke acknowledged the bird’s action would at least keep him warm as he slept although its presence unsettled her.

  So she nodded once and could have sworn the raven did likewise to her. But she had no wish to prolong the moment, especially when those around her needed what skills she could offer.

  By the time she finished her search for the living, Annyeke could barely stand. At each man or woman who still breathed, she crouched down and touched their foreheads gently, giving something of her own mind-strength to each. She trusted it would be enough to keep them alive until someone else should wake and help her carry them to shelter. Should there be any such left in the village.

  The first of them to do so was the Lammas Lord.

  Ralph

  He coughs himself into consciousness, the ache in his leg rising like fire through the rest of his body. He is lying on his side, pressed up against flesh which smells of blood and sweat and iron. It is the blacksmith and Ralph pushes him away, the aroma of death making his gorge rise. He staggers to his knees and spits out bile as he surveys the scene.

  The treacherous mist has gone and he can feel his memories come drifting back. That, as Simon would say with the half-ironic tone he has learnt to love, is something to be grateful for in the midst of this destruction. Every sense alert to any other threat and danger which might arise, he looks for Simon but sees at once the great raven is there before him, vast wings spread. For a moment, and with a beat of his heart he has no time to dwell over, he is ready to protect the scribe once more but the bird is not the enemy and indeed has been more of a friend to Simon than he has been. He will not disturb whatever magic it might be performing. He only hopes its work will be successful.

  He glances round again and sees the First Elder. She is crouching beside someone on the opposite side of the path. He sees a flash of orange leap from her hand and disappear into the body next to her, and at once he is up on his feet again.

  “What are you doing?” he shouts at her, though it is more of a harsh whisper than a shout as he almost falls again.

  She hears him somehow and, may the stars bless her, hurries to his side to offer support. He is pleased to find he is not too proud to accept it though he does not lean on her for long. What kind of soldier and lord would he be if he does?

  Annyeke smiles. “I forget how traditional you Lammassers are. I think there are many other things you could rebuke yourself for apart from that, Lord Tregannon.”

  That makes him blink and he removes his hand from her arm. He cannot gainsay the truth of her words, but she has not yet answered his question. “What were you doing? I saw colour go from you.”

  “I am doing enough to give your people, who have somehow survived this battle, strength as they come to themselves again,” she answers with a slight twist to her mouth. “I don’t believe you can charge me with the crime of murder.”

  No, he cannot. It is simply a soldier’s instinct for treachery and the almost overpowering urge to protect his people has for a moment or two obliterated his better judgement.

  “I know it,” he says quietly, glancing again at the snow-raven but its position is unaltered. “Forgive me.”

  She nods and then, after a short pause, smiles. “Accepted, my lord. And now, if you are able to bear it, we have work to perform.”

  Indeed they do. Until the sun begins to sink in the sky, he and Annyeke carry those few who live but are not yet awake to the old well where they make them as comfortable as possible and find bracken and light branches to cover them for warmth. For a while Ralph wonders if the power of the emeralds has protected him from the worst of the mist’s attack, but in truth it does not matter. He is glad to help those under his rule as best he can. They leave the dead for now. They are beyond helping.

  Finally, the meagre few left to them are gathered by the well. Ralph sits down abruptly and wipes his hand over his face. Despite the chill, he is sweating, and Annyeke likewise. Her skin is red with exertion but her expression keeps its customary determination.

  “We have them,” she pants. “There are no more to save.”

  “Except Simon,” he whispers, and she nods.

  “Yes, except the Lost One.”

  Ralph stands up, slowly. “I need to see him.”

  When Annyeke places herself in front of him, there is compassion in her eyes as well as strength. “You need also to care for your people, Lammas Lord.”

  “And I will, I swear it,” he leans forward, catching her gaze so she may fully know his purpose, with no secrets hidden from her. At the same time, several realisations meld together in his thoughts and he is more himself than he has ever been. “I will do so. Believe me, First Elder, I have learnt my lesson well. Here there is no mind-executioner to deceive me with his promises and I understand power is nothing at all without mercy, no matter what my father believed. You have promised me an alliance between our peoples and though these things are strange to us all, I will learn from you and do what clear honour, honour without manipulation, requires of me. My people will live and this land will thrive again, no matter what comes against us. I swear it to you and the gods and stars above, may they hear me and believe my words and my heart. Trust me in this at least, if you can trust me in no other fashion. But while the remnants of my people are yet to wake, when it comes to Simon, there I will do what my blood demands, although there is honour too in it.”

  His words are finished and he breaks his gaze from the First Elder’s, waiting, not quite patiently, for her response. She can, he imagines, conquer his purpose with the power of her own mind, with the skills she evidently has, but he trusts her enough to understand she will not do so.

  Finally, she steps back and this time when he looks at her, the smile she carries is broader.

  “You men are a law unto yourselves,” she says though he is not entirely sure what she means by it. “As you wish, Lammas Lord, as you wish.”

  Simon

  The Lost One felt comforted. Yes, that was the word which best described his current state. There had been a battle, he knew. Then someone had died and that he did not wish to remember, though he was unable to strike the image from his thought: the castle cook; the mind-cane; death; then darkness, and now the comfort of feathers.

  He longed to stay in this place, but that was not the way of the earth or indeed the sky. The gods would not permit it. And in truth neither would he. Simon had hidden from the reality around him for too long in the past. So he reached out and touched the feathers around him, drawing in the snow-raven’s strength of purpose but not denying his own.

  I must leave you, but I give you my thanks, he said, not speaking aloud but letting his mind take the words to the raven.

  Is it your flying time?

  How good it felt to hear the great bird speak again, even though his language was couched in the images of his race. In Simon’s physical exhaustion, it took him a moment to interpret.

  Yes, I believe so, he said.

  A pause followed and then the feathers began to withdraw from around him. At the same moment, he heard the sound of hobbling footsteps and Ralph’s voice.

  “Simon.”

  The mind-cane leapt once in his hand as the Lammas Lord came to a halt in front of him and fell to his knees. Behind him, Annyeke hurried up, a frown lining her face, but the Lost One could pay her no heed. His attention was gripped by Ralph’s agonised expression, the way his hands danced patterns in the air around Simon but did not dare to touch. “Simon. Are you well? The raven …”

  “Has
not hurt me, Lord Tregannon. I am well enough. Perhaps he has restored me with those magical feathers of his.”

  Simon’s voice was rough and his throat ached, but his limbs were sound and, with the help of Ralph and Annyeke, he managed to stand. The snow-raven kept his distance and the mind-cane was silent, though he felt the bird’s heat soothing his skin. “The battle?”

  “It is over,” Annyeke replied. “You defeated our enemy, Lost One. I thank you for it.”

  “But there is much to do,” Ralph added, his gaze breaking with Simon’s and taking in the village and the people around them. “We must finish what you have started.”

  Before he could reply, Annyeke hugged him, and Simon felt the colours of her thoughts flowing easily alongside his own. Over her shoulder he glanced at Ralph and smiled. After a heartbeat or two, the Lammas Lord nodded and held out his hand, this time steadily. Simon took it, felt the promise it held for them all.

  It was enough.

  Epilogue: Three moon-cycles later

  Annyeke

  In the first light of morning, the Gathandrian First Elder stood by her beloved lemon tree and stretched both mind and limbs to greet the sun just beginning to warm the land. The action reminded her of the day-cycle, not so long ago but seeming a lifetime, when she had padded out to enjoy her garden whilst everyone else was asleep and seen the first hint of new growth on her tree. Everything had started then, and now it was finished. Or rather the land and the people were experiencing a new beginning and she was grateful. Even the tree was in full blossom, its leaves the deepest green and the colour they should be. No messages from the gods for her this morning, apart from the blessings of bright air, sunlight and safety.

  Since the day when the Lost One had fought the Battle of Silence, as the people were beginning to call it, and won them back their stories, the land had changed, for the better. All the lands. Back then, once the Lammassers had begun to waken after the fight, and seeing Ralph and the Lost One assuming control of the aftermath of war, working together she noted, Annyeke had stepped away and, using the two emeralds she had in her possession, taken her leave of them.

  She would have preferred a less bumpy journey back to Gathandria, but not everything could be perfect, or how she might like. A terrible admission for a red-headed woman to make, but it did not matter as she would not be sharing this thought with others. Except perhaps Johan, one day soon. At the time she had landed with an undignified thump in the middle of the public square, next to a startled Talus and a more than relieved Johan. When her beloved had helped her to her feet, he had hugged her until she thought she would never breathe again before smoothing down her hair and wiping what must have been smudges from her face.

  She had hugged him back before turning to speak with her people gathered there and those more distant in the city. Holding Johan’s hand tightly in her uninjured one and with her other arm around her foster son, she had told them her thought.

  The battle is won, she had said. The Lost One and our own courage have saved us. The lands are safe in truth. Now we can live again.

  After that, she had all but fainted – oh the shame of it – and Johan had carried her home, Talus tugging eagerly on her skirts as they strode through the streets.

  Now in the daylight she could smile, just a little, at that memory. Since then, life had been better. The very next morning after her return, she and Johan, along with the rest of the people, had begun to rebuild their city with a greater confidence than they had possessed before. Something of the darkness around them had eased and they had started to find hope. Hope was always good, and the rediscovery of it had opened Annyeke’s eyes to how much it had been missing before.

  The Gathandrian Library had been the most astonishing revelation of them all. Since her vision there when the colours of green and silver had come to her, almost from nothing, her meditations had grown deeper and she now spent time each morning bringing the colours to her and giving herself to them. Somehow it gave her wisdom for the role the Great Spirit had given her. It must have been the way the Lost One saved them, by restoring the words which had been taken, as when Annyeke had entered the library two day-cycles after the Lammas battle, she could sense its spirit already at work: colours flowed through the air, and the parchment and books pulsated with red and blue and gold. The Book of Blood was nowhere to be found, destroyed she assumed in their victory, and she had been all the more relieved for it. The task of rebuilding the Library’s walls and rooms and shelves was as a result proving far easier than she had assumed, although it would be many moon-cycles before it was fully finished.

  Against these delights, the last three moons had had difficult aspects to them also. What elder could ever say everything was so well it could not be improved? The presence of Iffenia, how she had influenced the Lammas cook and how she still dwelt in her husband the Chair-Maker could not be ignored.

  Annyeke had therefore gathered her courage to her and, with the blessing of the remaining elders, taken the Maker of Chairs, Iffenia’s beloved, to the ancient place of prayer. The journey had not been a long one and he had not spoken a word to her during it. Instead a cloud of impenetrable black shadowed him and kept them both company in their quietness.

  When they reached their destination, the Chair Maker had spoken first against all that was right.

  “You wish for me to leave you and your people, and take my beloved with me,” he said, his voice and mind tearing at her soul as his anger and grief flooded through her. “And you and the elders have the power to do it now the Book has gone and whilst Iffenia and I remain so weak after the battle. But I tell you this, First Elder, you will say no prayer on my or my wife’s behalf for mercy. Because for as long as I live there will be none such. For unless you kill me and therefore destroy us both, there will be no real peace for you.”

  In response, Annyeke strode up to him, brushing his mind-power aside and replacing it with her own. Just for a heart-moment, his eyes widened and she sensed the Gathandrian behind the obsession which consumed him, but then he was gone. Some things could never be rescued.

  She gripped his arms and shook him, allowing the strength of her role and calling to match his.

  “I have killed before,” she whispered, “and if it is needful I will kill again. For my country, for my people, and for those I love. Know that, Chair-Maker. And may the lack of peace you offer remain with you, until all things are resolved in the Spirit’s mind.”

  For a moment or two, she thought he might fight her, he and Iffenia both, but the power they possessed had been weakened. They were no longer any match for her and the strength the elders shared with her.

  So Annyeke watched and kept on watching as he left, stumbling away in a frenzy of black and red and darkest purple mind-fire until his figure disappeared entirely from view in the higher hills. She felt the stain of him on her skin and wondered if all First Elders felt the same and if it would ever truly leave her. Then she had fallen to her knees and prayed until her heart was calmer again.

  It had, she thought then, been the hardest thing she had ever done. Without the Book of Blood, any future attack on them would be weaker. If the Chair Maker ever returned then she and her people would be ready.

  A sudden soft footfall behind her as she stood in the garden, overcome by memories, and she felt gentle arms encircle her waist. You think too much, Annyeke.

  She smiled at Johan’s words. Perhaps that is what drew you to me in the first place?

  One of many things, I am sure. He kissed the top of her head and she leant backwards into his embrace, sensing the delight between them as their minds melded.

  Talus is asleep? she asked him.

  Fit to sleep all the morning through unless we rouse him, he replied. I did not believe a child could sleep so much. Now I know better.

  This time Annyeke laughed and brought their hands to rest on her gently swollen belly, the first outward sign of what was to come. She was thankful her worst experiences would soon be b
alanced with such a blessing. We will have a chance to compare the sleeping patterns of children when the summer-season is gone, though the women tell me we will be lucky to get any sleep at all. Perhaps when the Lost One comes here to welcome our daughter, he will give us the gift of sleep that Talus has now.

  Johan joined in her laughter and hugged her closer still.

  I would set nothing past Simon the Scribe, he said. He has proved to be a most unusual cousin.

  Ralph

  The Lammas Lord closes the castle door behind him and takes in a breath of the warm evening air. Three moon-cycles since the internal wars ceased and he is at last beginning to sleep well at night. His wounds have healed, thanks to Simon’s skill with herbs and the mind-cane’s power, but his leg still aches when the day’s work is over. Something in him sees this as fitting, a reminder of what he has done and the vital necessity never to let it happen again.